


come try you out

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Series: about you (straps and pancakes) (winterhawk lesbians) [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Lesbian Character, Morning After, Pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: Clint doesn’t sleep like this. She never sleeps like this. And yet apparently all it takes is the presence of tiny little Bucky Barnes to still all of her tossing and turning.Last night’s starting to fill itself in as Clint’s sleep-stupid brain heaves its way awake like an old car starting. The party, the dancing. The way Bucky’s eyes had been devouring her, hungrier than Clint’s ever seen. She should be hungover. They both should be hungover. Apparently they’ve fucked it out of their systems. The thought makes Clint snort, turning her face into the pillow beneath her to try not to wake Bucky.They’ve never done this.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: about you (straps and pancakes) (winterhawk lesbians) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720069
Comments: 14
Kudos: 52





	come try you out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



> I COME BEARING PANCAKES
> 
> note: this is the AU where every single person in the avengers is a goddamn lesbian. it is beautiful and nothing hurts

Clint Barton hates waking up. Sleep is _awesome._ Normally she wakes up too cold or too hot, and far too groggy to do anything about it, in a bed that’s too small for her tall frame. She’s apparently a restless sleeper, usually kicking three pillows and a blanket to the floor over the course of an average night, and her eyes are always too heavy to open for at least three cycles of her snooze button.

Maybe she’s still dreaming, though, because her body’s heavy and warm with relaxation, tucked comfortably tight around what must be a tangle of sheets. It feels like a blanket fort, comfortable and safe. Her face is buried in something soft that smells like Bucky Barnes’ fragrance and oh _fuck,_ if Clint stole her hoodie or something and slept with it she won’t be able to show her face for a week.

The tangle in her arms shifts somewhat, and Clint realizes in a rush that she has apparently stolen _Bucky_ and slept the evening with her face tucked (and probably drooling) into those dark curls. 

No, not stolen. Bucky had stolen _her._ Clint still hasn’t opened her eyes, but it’s coming back to her now: the blissed-out weight of her limbs the aftermath of Bucky Barnes’ trademark orgasms, the ones that seem to flood Clint’s entire nervous system with fire; the scent being Bucky’s fragrance and shampoo and whatever she uses to wash her sheets in. Her body wakes up, _wow,_ all at once, because that’s Bucky’s bare skin pressed to hers the whole way down. Clint’s curled around Bucky’s back like one side of a parenthesis. Her arm’s draped over Bucky’s waist, and Bucky seems to be holding it, fingers tangled with the looseness of sleep.

Clint doesn’t sleep like this. She never sleeps like this. And yet apparently all it takes is the presence of tiny little Bucky Barnes to still all of her tossing and turning. 

Last night’s starting to fill itself in as Clint’s sleep-stupid brain heaves its way awake like an old car starting. The party, the dancing. The way Bucky’s eyes had been devouring her, hungrier than Clint’s ever seen. She should be hungover. They both should be hungover. Apparently they’ve fucked it out of their systems. The thought makes Clint snort, turning her face into the pillow beneath her to try not to wake Bucky.

They’ve never done this.

Clint’s well aware that she’s so gone on Bucky Barnes she might as well write _date me_ across her forehead; she’s so aware of it that she’s also well aware that most of the softball team is, in their terrible micromanaging ways, somewhat rooting for the two of them. Clint’s been gone since the first time Bucky wrapped her fingers into Clint’s mohawk and tugged her down for a kiss, nightclub lights spinning around them with the beat still thudding into her boots, and Clint had never felt so dizzy in her entire life. Their little whirlwind flirtation has been _literally_ the highlight of Clint’s semester. But they’ve never done this: folded up together after the fact, lacing their limbs so that they slot together like pieces of a puzzle. Clint’s never woken up with Bucky like this.

She’s fairly sure the pounding of her heartbeat is gonna wake Bucky up, too, and that’s just embarrassing. She’s keeping herself as still as she can, because she needs to have this moment to have a little freakout with her feelings. It feels like her chest might explode from the fondness, the way Bucky’s shamelessly pressed into the curve of Clint’s body, the little wheezing noises of her breath. Shit, Clint wants this. Having had it this once, she’s well aware that she’s going to want to have it every single night she can, moving forward.

Then Bucky makes this little satisfied sigh, and Clint can _feel_ her starting to wake up, limbs slowly stretching out in a way that makes Clint think of a cat. It’s adorable as fuck.

“Morning,” she mumbles into Bucky’s curls, wondering whether Bucky remembers she’s here. Clint wonders how Bucky will react, hopes it isn’t going to be awkward.

However, Bucky continues to stretch, making an utterly sinful noise, and then she rolls over in Clint’s arms, shifting until she’s staring Clint in the face.

Bucky’s sleep-messed: her hair in tangles around her face, last night’s makeup migrated under her eyes, a wrinkle on her cheek from the pillow. And Bucky’s smiling, brilliantly, satisfied, as she looks at Clint through half-lidded lashes and manages to mumble, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Clint breathes back. She feels like she’s been stabbed. If she doesn’t get to kiss Bucky soon - _this_ Bucky specifically, this messy and unraveled Bucky - she might actually die.

“You’re cute,” Bucky announces. She’s so brilliantly shameless, as she leans in to land a kiss on the tip of Clint’s nose, and Clint can’t help it; she ducks her head a bit, and catches Bucky’s morning-soft lips with hers, just for a moment.

Bucky makes a surprised little noise, her eyes fluttering shut sweetly, and she presses a number of close-mouthed kisses along Clint’s lips and then jawline. Clint literally can’t breathe. 

There’s nothing awkward here, nothing jarring or threatening, and Clint lets her arms tighten around Bucky for a moment before releasing her with a kiss to her temple. 

“Pancakes,” Bucky says, as if they’re continuing a conversation.

“Mmmgh?” Clint’s brain is still a little bit offline what with all of the waking up and the bare skin and the smiling.

“It’s Saturday,” Bucky tells her, still with that dazzling smile. “C’mon, Barton, you’re taking me for pancakes.”

“I’m,” Clint says, driven to protest on instinct because that’s how she and Bucky flirt, the constant back-and-forth of it -- and then her sleep-addled brain finally catches up and Clint realizes that she absolutely, yes, she’s not at all going to argue with the concept of taking Bucky Barnes for pancakes after staying the night in her bed. “Okay.”

Bucky’s smile brightens even more, and she presses a blinding kiss against Clint’s cheek before she wrestles her way out of the covers and off the bed. And hell, that’s another fucking punch to the chest: Bucky, naked, tangled hair tumbling over her pale shoulders, the slight indent of dimples right above her ass. Clint will be lucky to get out of this morning alive, let alone with pancakes.

Bucky grabs a giant robe off of a hook and tosses it at the bed. “Here, this one should be long enough for you, I have another. D’you need to shower? I’m just gonna wash up real quick, but you’re welcome to, if you want.”

Clint shrugs. It isn’t like she has clean clothes to change into at the moment. “Wash my face, maybe,” she says, managing to get the robe on without getting out of bed. It, too, smells like Bucky and Clint narrowly avoids getting caught with her nose buried in the fabric.

Bucky tugs on some - ridiculous silk thing, more wrap than robe - and then throws the door open and reaches back to grab Clint’s hand. 

Oh, that’s right -- Bucky lives in a suite. Clint freezes for a second, cause she doesn’t know who Bucky would be sharing space with (other than Stevie, since they’re basically joined at the hip) and she isn’t really sure what’s polite protocol for potentially meeting the roommates after a booty call? But Bucky tugs her into the bathroom, shamelessly, and Clint just follows. 

This is one of the things Clint finds so attractive about Bucky: her absolute inability to feel shame when it comes to what she wants. (It’s also the thing that keeps Clint holding back, a little, because if Bucky really wanted this as a _thing_ between them, Clint’s absolutely sure she wouldn’t be shy about it.) But Clint barely has time to think about it because both of the showers are going and Bucky just stomps right in, hollering, “Who the fuck is in here?”

“Barnes, jesus, you’re never up this early,” calls a voice from one shower.

“Seriously, fuck,” says the other.

“Don’t come out naked,” Bucky says, turning her teasing mischievous smile on Clint. “We have a visitor.”

“Oh, in that case,” says the first voice, and Clint can hear the shower curtain rattle; she quickly jerks away, turning to the closest sink and turning the water on. She’s sure her ears are pink, so she doesn’t look in the mirror.

“Dum-Dum, _shit,_ keep it in your pants,” Bucky says, teasing, settling in at the sink next to Clint. “This one’s mine.”

“C’mon, give us a chance,” says - Dum-Dum? - although it’s immediately followed by, “oh, shit, is that Barton?”

“Oh my lord, Dugs, shut your face hole,” says the second voice. Clint glances up, where he can see a cheerful face grinning over the wrangled shower curtain. 

“Come make me, Gabi darling,” says this Dum-Dum, who catches Clint’s eye in the mirror and gives her a lascivious wink. “Sorry, Buck, I know Barton’s off-limits unless you decide to share.”

Clint can’t help but glance briefly over at Bucky, whose cheeks are a lovely pink. Nevertheless, she says to Clint, “I’m sorry. I’d give you a formal introduction, but my suitemates are _mostly trash._ ” Her volume increases at the end, and there’s a loud snort from Dum-Dum’s shower as the curtain falls back into place.

“Nice to finally meet you, Barton!” The second voice yells from the shower, and Clint decides to just dunk her head under the faucet. The cold water does wonders for the blush she can feel building up the back of her neck, and she scrubs her short hair around under the tap until she feels like she isn’t blushing like a child anymore.

By the time she comes up, shaking her fingers through her hair to dry it, Bucky’s patting her own face dry with a towel and watching. Clint gives her a sideways smile and shrugs, and Bucky’s grin goes a little bit proprietary. It looks good on her.

Clint gathers up some water in her hands and tries her best to rinse her mouth out while Bucky brushes her teeth. She splashes it on her face too, and accepts the little face towel Bucky hands her nonchalantly to wipe her cheeks dry and then scrub a bit at her hair. She hands the towel back, makes a gesture towards Bucky’s room, and then - much to her embarrassment - says an awkwardly garbled “goodbye” as she leaves the bathroom. Clint can hear Dum-Dum’s whooping all the way from Bucky’s bedroom, where she starts tugging on her undies and jeans and sports bra. 

Bucky whirls into the room smelling like fresh soap and citrus, and she’s grinning to beat anything as she picks up the bathrobe and hangs it back on its hook. “I’m never going to hear the end of this,” she says, somewhat piously, and then throws Clint a very suggestive glance over her shoulder as she drops her own robe to the floor. 

Clint can’t help it. She presses herself up against Bucky’s spine, leaning down to brush a kiss against that freckled shoulder. All of that skin on display? She’s a weak woman. “Have I gotten you in trouble?” Clint murmurs, trying to find her equilibrium again, aware that she’s deeply off-balance having woken up wrapped around Bucky like an octopus. 

Bucky makes this light noise in the back of her throat, tilting her head back to rest on Clint’s shoulder. This reveals more pale skin, and Clint slowly kisses that as well. “Not me,” Bucky says, “but you may have started a suite war. There was, um,” and Bucky’s voice catches a bit, as if she’s trying not to laugh. “Bets were made.”

“Bets?” Clint leaves one more kiss and then pulls back, pulling her tank top back on over her head, letting Bucky cross the tiny room to get dressed. “Bets on _what?”_

Bucky isn’t turning around and Clint can hear the somewhat self-conscious smile in her voice. “Uh, you know.” She tugs a tee over her head, straightens it. “Bets on how long it would take for me to get you to stay over.”

Clint blinks. Takes a second. Then, working to keep the smile from taking over her face, she says, “Bucky Barnes, have you had indecent designs on me?”

At that, Bucky turns, and there’s the smile Clint always falls for: a bit naughty, a bit soft, and all one-hundred-percent _Bucky._ “From the very beginning,” she says, and if it’s a little like a confession Clint doesn’t really care at all, cause she’s gonna kiss it right off Bucky’s face.

———

Bucky bundles Clint up in a giant hoodie - it’s black, and sorely worn-in, and Clint’s pretty sure he’s seen Bucky wear it to class with leggings and boots - and they slip out of the suite, on their way to what Bucky has declared the best pancakes this side of the river. Clint has no skin in this game, though; she likes all kinds of pancakes, she isn’t picky, and personally she’s ready to declare any pancakes she buys for Bucky as the best pancakes ever.

Bucky’s sparkling on the walk there; she’s as flirty as usual, all raised eyebrows and smirks, except that she seems to be bumping her shoulder into Clint’s more often than necessary and when Clint finally gets up the courage to reach out and take her hand, Bucky just smirks more and swings their clasped hands between them like she’s won some kind of game. 

The place is a tiny diner tucked into a little building between two parking lots, the kind of subtle setup Clint may have walked past a dozen times without ever seeing the sign. Bucky slides them up to the counter, and it’s only a few seconds before someone sticks their head out and yells, “Oi, y’all, it’s Miss Barnes!”

Bucky glances over at Clint, her lips pursed in amusement, and Clint just shrugs, an easy defeated smile on her face. Bucky can do anything at this point and Clint’ll let her. 

The woman who emerges from the kitchen is unexpectedly stunning: hair curled up like they’ve time-traveled back into the forties, all pincurls and perfect waves. She’s wearing the kind of red lipstick that could kill a man, and she leans forward over the counter so that she and Bucky can make air-kisses at each other. She then turns to Clint and gives her the most rakish once-over she’s _ever_ gotten from a stranger.

“No shit, Miss Barnes, this is her?”

Bucky’s face lights up again. For the twenty-fourth time this morning, Clint can’t breathe; how many people has Bucky —? Is Bucky _talking_ about her, do people _know about Clint?_ Is this just how Bucky is, or does Bucky actually - want - why has she told so many people about Clint?

“Peggy, let me introduce Clint Barton. All Barton, no Miss, thanks.”

Clint catches the woman’s nametag as Peggy’s gaze lands a little heavier. “Welcome to Howlie’s, Barton. Miss Barnes here’s one of our regulars.”

Clint glances over at Bucky. The look on her face has Clint’s heart in her throat; it’s expectant, happy but the tiniest bit shy, and Clint’s suddenly struck with the fact that this is Bucky’s way of saying she’s all in, as well; with the fact that Clint could easily shatter all of this with the tiniest bit of rejection. 

“Well,” Clint drawls, enjoying the moment. “Seeing as I’m one of _her_ regulars, nice to meet you.”

Peggy hoots and throws a napkin at Bucky, who’s blushing, but the look she gives Clint is both challenging and smug. It’s kind of endearing, and Clint feels more steady on her own two feet than she has all morning, and returns it with a slow smirk that makes Bucky blush even more.

Peggy bustles around, bringing them mugs of diner coffee (it’s appropriately bitter, and brings back memories of Clint’s childhood) and menus. Bucky tells her the chocolate chip pancakes are to die for, only to order the dollar buckwheat pancakes when it comes to her turn. Peggy spends most of her time yelling back into the kitchen at someone called Angie, while Bucky keeps flicking her eyes up at Clint and then back down to the placemat in a shy sort of flirting. 

And there’s something warm growing in Clint’s chest; she knows it’s something happy, but she doesn’t want to name it so soon. Not because she’s afraid Bucky doesn’t mean it — no, not after this morning, wearing Bucky’s hoodie and waiting for pancakes at her personal favorite local diner. Something’s settled between them, the kind of feeling that makes Clint think she could reach out for Bucky’s hand and hold it, possibly as long as she wanted. It’s more that Clint isn’t _quite_ ready to be done with this feeling yet: the potential, lying in the air between them, almost tangible.

“This three-cheese omelette is the hangover food of the gods,” Bucky’s telling her, and Clint stretches an arm out on the back of her chair idly as she leans in to look at the menu. The move is subtle to absolutely no-one in this diner. Bucky just shrugs a bit, shifting her shoulder until it’s pressed against Clint’s arm in a movement of solidarity. “Or this, here, the Mexican breakfast wraps. Stevie ate three entire orders, once.”

“Of course she did,” Clint says. She takes a drink of her coffee without moving the arm currently wrapped around Bucky’s back. “Next time, I guess. Don’t have much of a hangover left.”

“Me neither,” Bucky says with a snicker, and Peggy shoots them a look that lets them both know they’re only not getting a roasting because an older gentleman has settled in at the other end of the counter. They both giggle. Clint isn’t even sure why it’s funny, except that it is because Bucky’s laughing at it.

After a few minutes of this Peggy sets two plates of pancakes in front of them, and it’s as Clint’s feeding Bucky a bite of the chocolate chip pancakes smothered in syrup that she realizes it’s only Saturday. That she could have Bucky for more of this day - maybe not the whole day, despite the fact that she’d suggested a dinner date, mostly because Clint does need to make it home eventually for a shower - just like this, casual and comfortable. That she could maybe have some more of Bucky like this tomorrow. That there are endless days and weekends before them, where she might just be able to hang out with Bucky like this, these moments of closeness and fondness — after their usual mind-blowing sex, Clint’s never going to say no to that, but she’s desperately aware of this new quiet normal between them as well. 

“You heathen,” Bucky says fondly as Clint manages to get whipped cream on her nose, and the kiss they share at that moment tastes like syrup and black coffee and warm potential.

**Author's Note:**

> I needed the fluff. So did y'all. come [yell at me on tumblr if you must](https://sevdrag.tumblr.com/)


End file.
